What if the World Stopped Turning
by Sasha Cartwright
Summary: When Connor runs out of cigarettes, he sends Murphy out to get some, but this tasks takes a turn when two gangsters give Murphy amnesia. Now Connor must move on in a world thinking his brother is dead and Murphy must find his way back home. PLEASE R


What if the World Stopped Turning?

By Sasha Cartwright

"Come on Murph, let's go," called Connor as he and his twin brother, Murphy, ran out of the bar as a glass full of beer was hurled at his head.

"I don't think you should have done that Connor," Murph said as they made their way back to the apartment that they were sharing with their father. "Those guys looked pretty pissed."

"Well fuck 'em," Connor replied, climbing the steps. "That bastard shouldn't have pushed me."

"But seriously," Murphy added, but Connor cut him off.

"Come on Murph," Connor stated, opening the front door. "Everything's fine so let's just forget about it."

"All right," Murph sighed as he followed his brother into the apartment.

"Have a good time?" asked Da, looking up as the two entered the room.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Connor answered with a smile, picking a shard of broken glass out of his hair and rolling it around in his fingers before throwing it into the trash.

The night passed much like every other before it, the three MacManuses watching TV, drinking Guinness and Hennessey, and smoking cigarettes, well, almost.

At one o'clock that morning, Connor reached into his pocket for his ever-present pack of smokes and discovered, with dismay, that he only had one left.

"Damn," he exclaimed, seeing his plight.

"What?" asked Murphy curiously.

"I've only got one left," Connor moaned, knowing that he couldn't last until morning without at least twice as many.

"You can't have any of mine," Da stated throwing in his bits. "We're a different brand. You might grow another head."

"You're right Da," agreed Connor, not liking the idea of puffing of Da's extra toxic tobacco. Then he saw Murphy sitting on the couch and had an epiphany.

Murphy looked up from his Guinness and saw his brother staring at him.

"What?" he asked, noticing that Connor's eyes were trained on him. Then it dawned on him.

"Oh no," Murph stated, "Forget it. You can get your own cigarettes. I'm staying here."

"Please Murph," Connor begged, giving his twin big puppy dog eyes.

"No," replied Murph fervently, "Absolutely not."

After nearly half an hour of constant, "Please, Murphs," Murphy, having enough, finally gave in.

"All right," he caved, tired of hearing his brother whine, "but you've got to pay for 'em."

"Fine," agreed Connor, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a twenty dollar bill, and handing it to his brother.

"Make sure you don't get that Menthol shit," Connor called to Murphy as his brother rose from his seat and walked to the door.

"Yea, yea," Murph nodded, hearing the same routine every time he went out to get smokes since they were seventeen and started smoking.

"You own me, Connor," Murph called as he walked through the door of the apartment and disappeared from sight.

As Murph walked down the sidewalk to the all-night convenience store that the MacManuses often visited for quick grocery shopping over the past months, he passed the alley just before the store when two figured emerged from the darkness.

As they stepped into the light, Murphy recognized them as the two he and Connor had worked over at the pub.

"I guess you two aren't here for an autograph," said Murphy.

"Very funny, Mick boy," the smaller one growled, through it was hard to tell the difference since both were built like brick shit houses, "too bad you don't have your big brother to take care of you."

"Yea, too bad," Murph agreed, knowing his chances weren't too promising. "Then the odds might be a little better. I mean two against one is just…"

"Shut the fuck up, you Irish cunt!" the smaller one yelled, throwing a wide right hook at Murph's chest, which he quickly dodged.

All those years of living with his brother had taught him something.

The two thugs, however, were not as amused.

The larger of the two, not enjoying looking like a fool twice in one evening, grabbed the front of Murphy's shirt in his big, meaty fist and slammed the younger man into the brick wall of the alley.

Murphy's head took a majority of the blow, seeming to crumble under the force as it collided with the rock wall.

Pain shot through his head, making his vision blurry as the two other men continued to beat his chest, face, and legs.

It wasn't long before the darkness consumed him and he fell limp in the hands of his captors.

The two continued to mercilessly pummel the unconscious man until he looked close enough to dead.

Letting him drop to the floor of the alley with a sickening, broken 'thud', the smaller one started going through Murphy's pockets, quickly finding the twenty dollar bill and greedily pocketing it.

"We'd better go before somebody finds him," the larger one said.

"Wait," said the other, noticing the chain around Murphy's neck.

Yanking it from the unconscious man's neck, breaking the cord, the smaller man scoffed, finding that it wasn't anything of value.

"Just a cross," the man said, throwing the broken necklace to the ground by Murphy's crumpled body. "You're going to need a god pretty soon, either that, or you'll meet one personally."

Walking casually from the alley, the two men left Murphy for dead, unconscious and beaten, surrounded by the shit and decay of the back road floor.

Later that morning, before the sun came up, two people emerged from the piles of trash and dead vermin, and saw the injured MacManus brother, still unconscious from his beating.

"Look Leroy," noted the woman of the pair. "He looks hurt."

"We'll do what we can," the man replied, "but this young man may be beyond our help."

As they approach Murphy, they saw the frightening amount of blood splattered on his face and chest, bare now from the shirt that was nearly ripped from his thin body.

Kneeling down, Leroy felt a faint heart beat beneath the battered chest.

"Is he going to be all right, Leroy?" the woman asked.

"He will be," replied the man, "if we can get him back to the square."

"Here, Kara, help me lift him," he said, lifting the younger man's shoulders and seeing the large pool of blood on the concrete below. "Careful, watch his head."

Between the two of them, Leroy and Kara carried Murphy back to their city in the slum, leaving his rosary and tattered shirt behind.

After waiting up all night and still no news from Murphy, Connor was in a full-fledged panic.

"He should have been back hours ago," he stated, pacing the front room for the five hundredth time. "Something must have happened to him."

Da turned to look at the clock. It had been over six hours since Murphy had left the apartment

"All right," stated Da, just as worried as Connor. "Let's go find him."

They walked as quickly as they could without drawing suspicion, down the sidewalk to the drug store, but when they reached the alley, Da and Connor saw the blood.

Normally, seeing blood in an alley wasn't much of a surprise, just a grisly remainder of the dangers of living in such a violent city in a violent country, but this blood, it was special: in the midst of the blood, a tattered black shirt and a piece of shiny wood sat.

As Connor approached the pool, he saw, on top of the rags of black, was a polished piece of wood that he could see the sun shine off of.

He knew instantly that it was his brother's rosary, his shirt, and…his blood.

Seeing the lake of blood, Connor knew the horrible truth. No one could have lost that much blood and survived at least not there for that long.

Connor's eyes filled with tears as he realized his beloved brother had been ripped away from him, all over a pack of cigarettes.

Da saw the blood too, and came to the same awful conclusion.

Putting his arms around his now only son, he brokenly whispered, "Come on, son. Let's go home."

Half walking, half dragged, Connor made his way back to the apartment with his father, their lives changed forever.

Murphy awoke three days later, his head in an eye exploding ache.

As he made himself try to remember what had happened, he was greeted by a black void. Nothing of his past came to his thoughts, everything just a blur, even what had happened to him.

Murph's thoughts were interrupted by a woman's voice coming from the front of the tent-like dwelling he was lying in.

"Good, you're awake," she stated, her cheerful voice making his head sear with pain.

"Where-where am I," he asked, shakily sitting up, but thinking against it.

"Easy now," the woman warned kneeling down and crawling to his side, "you've got quite a bump on your head."

Murphy raised his right hand, finding it clothed by a glove with no fingers, and gently felt the back of his head.

Instantly, pain shot through his skull, enough to teach him to leave that particular portion of his anatomy alone.

Falling back on the pile of newspapers that was serving as a pillow, Murphy was greeted by another person, a man this time.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked, his eyes surveying his guest's battered form.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," Murphy answered, the pain slowly subsiding.

"I'm not surprised," the man said with a small chuckle. "When we found you, you were pretty beaten up."

His head finally clearing, Murphy looked at the faces of his rescuers, trying to make sense of what he had been told.

"Where am I?" he wondered, his gloved right hand cradling his head while his left arm propped his torso up from the papers.

"The back alleys of Boston," the man replied, "but most of us just call it home."

"My name is Kara," introduced the woman, "and this is Leroy."

"Nice to meet you," Murphy stated, keeping his voice down to aid his screaming head. "I wish I could return your courtesy, but I- I can't remember anything."

"That's probably from that gash on your head," Kara reasoned.

Despite the pounding in his head, Murph knew he'd have to go and find out who he was, especially if he had a family waiting for him.

"Thank you for your kindness," he said, trying to get up from his mat of newspapers, "but I have to find …"

"You're not going anywhere," stated Leroy, gently pushing the injured young man back onto his "bed", "not in this condition."

"Once you've rested up," Kara cooed, settling the wary young man down. "We'll help you in whatever way we can."

"Thanks," Murphy mumbled, falling back into a dreamless sleep.

As Murphy dosed amidst the old copies of the Boston Times, Kara asked, "What are we going to do with him."

"I don't know," answered Leroy, shooting a glance at the sleeping younger man. "He's no use to us, all beaten up like that."

"We can't kick him out now," Kara stated, aghast at the idea. "Not after we saved his life."

"I know that, Kara," Leroy said, "but it's hard out here and with someone that can't do their part, it's only going to get harder."

"I don't know about that," mused Kara, looking back at Murphy. "He might be the answer to all of our problems."

"Yea," scoffed Leroy. "Maybe."

Over the next three months, Connor became a walking lush, barely making it though a day without drinking himself into an unconscious stupor.

Da wanted nothing more than to save the one son that he had left, but Connor would have none of it, killing himself with guilt over his brother's death.

Things on the street were often equally as frustrating for Murphy.

His head slowly healing, Murphy was still unable to remember anything of the life his attackers had taken from him, or even the men themselves.

He helped out at the "square" as much as he could, giving the older of the homeless people much needed help, but his head wound often gave him debilitating headaches that would render him nearly unconscious.

It was Murphy's third month to the day on the streets when Kara helped him into his hut after another migraine had completely knocked the wind out of him.

"Thanks, Kara," he whispered, sitting down on the newspaper bed.

"It's okay," she said, leaving him alone to rest until his head quit screaming at him.

"He's got another headache," Kara told Leroy, exiting Murphy's makeshift home. "He just needs some rest."

"That's the second one today," noted Leroy, not amused by the young man and still annoyed that their protégé's health hadn't improved much since his arrival.

"What he really needs is a doctor," mentioned Kara.

"If one happens to end up on the street or comes down here and doesn't charge anything, we might be able to help him," Leroy stated.

"Fine," Kara said, storming off down the alley, "but at least I care about him."

The next day, as Connor rolled out of bed, he opened his blood shot eyes to see his father's worried face.

"Come on Connor," Da said, trying to coax his son from his drunken stupor. "You need to get up."

"What I need," slurred Connor, pushing himself up off the floor and crawling over to his shoes, "is a drink."

"Connor, stop," stated Da, trying to save his son from himself. "You're going to kill yourself doing this."

"It can't be worse than what I feel right now," the MacManus son said, putting his shoes sloppily on his feet. "I'm going down to the liquor store."

"Connor, Murphy…" Da started, but Connor quickly interrupted him.

"No, don't you dare say that!" Connor shouted, "I know this is my fault, and I'm not going to forgive myself until I hear it from him."

Grabbing his coat and his gun, Connor stormed out of the apartment, quickly followed by Da.

In the alley by the convince store, Murphy had just finished putting a new roof on one of the dilapidated huts when he and Kara saw two men storm down the street.

One was a younger man about Murphy's age with desperate, blood shot eyes and the other was an older man in mid sixties quickly following behind him.

Murphy, Connor, and Da all looked up when they heard two other men, both in their forties, one short and the other huge built like a brick house.

"Hey, you Irish fuck," greeted the shorter man. "You look like shit, just like your brother when we beat the shit out of him."

Instantly, the younger man with the blood shot eyes pulled a gun from beneath his coat and aimed it at the two men, but the bigger man drew first.

Then for some unknown reason, Murphy darted across the street and jumped in front of the younger man, catching the big man's bullet in his back.

"No!" Kara cried, rushing over to her injured friend while the younger man, the shorter man, and the big man stood silent on the sidewalk.

Not feeling the same sentiment, Da removed the pistol from his coat and shot the big man and the shorter man dead on the street, walked pass his son, and went to the young man's side.

The woman with him was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, as she cradled the man in her arms.

The man was thin and pale with long, greasy dark brown hair and a matching beard, his face etched with pain.

Connor walked to his father's side, not knowing that the man that he stared down at indifferently was the brother that he so desperately missed.

"Please," Kara cried, desperately wanting her friend to live. "Please help him. He saved your life, please help him."

Wanting to return the favor, Da carefully lifted the young man from the sidewalk and with the stunned Connor's help, took him back to the apartment.

Lying him down on his stomach on the dining room table, Da cut open the bottom of Murphy's shirt and found the bullet lodged in the small of the young man's thin back.

Not knowing that it was his own son under his hand, but realizing that they couldn't take a witness to one of their murders to the hospital, he found a clean, sharp kitchen knife and, as gently as he could, he cut the bullet out of the battered skin.

Getting the first aid kit, Da cleaned the wound and put a bandage on it, leaving the young man to rest on the table.

"Connor," he said quietly. "Help me find him some clothes."

"What good will it do?" the younger man asked. "He's just going to be back on the street in a week."

"He saved your life Connor," Da reminded. "The least you can do is help him until he gets better."

Begrudgingly, Connor nodded and went to find the young man some clean clothes.

For the next several days, Da nursed his lost son back to health, much to the disgust of Connor.

His drunken mind was convinced that his father was trying to replace their Murphy with some stranger that had helped them out and to Connor, that was more than he could stand.

One day, while Da was getting clean bandages from the bathroom, Connor walked over to the young man sleeping on the couch of their shabby living room, pulled the pillow out from under his brother's head, and pressing it over the man' face, not knowing that the man that he was smothering was in fact the person that he missed with all of his heart.

When Da reemerged from the other room and saw what his son was doing, he rushed to the struggling young man's side and pulled Connor away from his brother.

"Connor, what are you doing?" their father questioned, grabbing Connor's arms and making him look him in the eyes.

"You're trying to replace Murph with this bum," Connor slurred, his mind fixed on this half crazed idea. "How could you?"

"I'm not replacing him with anyone," Da stated, pushing his son away. "Get out of here, Connor, and don't come back until you've dried out."

Stumbling out the door, Connor tripped down the steps and into the street.

Shaking his head and walking back to the young man's side, Da gently rolled his son on his stomach and removed the blood soaked bandage from his son's back.

As he put the new bandage on the young man's wound, Da saw a black smudge on Murphy's shoulder.

Pulling back the split shirt, Da saw a vaguely familiar tattoo on the pale shoulder.

Getting an idea, he looked on the man's neck and found a Mother Mary tattoo, the one identical to that of both of his sons.

Quickly stripping the young man's hands, Da found the Aequitas on his son's right hand.

His heart leaping to his throat, Da gently pulled off the tattered shirt from Murphy's chest and saw the unmistakable 'Norman' on the left side on his chest.

Remembering to be careful of the boy's injuries, Da gathered his lost son into his arms and brushed the greasy black hair from his blue eyes.

Slowly, Murphy's eyes blinked open and he recognized the older man from the shooting, but he knew that that wasn't the only reason he remembered the man, but he couldn't think of where else he knew him.

"Hello, son," greeted Da, seeing his son's confused look. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Murphy stated, still not recognizing the man that was now cradling him in his arms while taking small glances around the room, and not remembering any of this. "Where am I?"

"You're at home, Murphy," Da explained, realizing that his son had amnesia that was why he hadn't said anything earlier: He didn't remember who they were.

"I don't recognize any of this," Murphy said, confirming his father's suspicions.

"It's all right, son," Da assured, just glad to have his son back, but still missing one.

"Murphy," Da said. "I need you to say here while I go and find Connor."

Murphy gave a small nod, as he eased back against his pillows and rested his sore head.

Da rose and quickly exited the apartment, finding Connor in very little time.

"Connor," called Da, finding his son only half a block away.

"Look Da," Connor stated, his words still a little slurred. "I know I…"

"Connor," Da interrupted. "We found him."

"What?" questioned Connor, not believing what he was hearing, "where?"

"The kid we found," explained Da. "It was him, but those fuckers must have worked him over because he has a pretty bad case of amnesia, that's why he didn't recognize us."

As the truth crushed down on Connor, his eyes filled with tears.

"Not now Connor," Da stated. "He needs you."

Steeling himself, Connor followed his father back home.

As he walked through the door, Connor was greeted by a familiar, "Did you find him?"

Connor looked at the face, still seeing a very rough looking bum but behind that greasy, overgrown hair, he could see his brother's smug smile and the pale blue eyes that, for the last three months, he thought he had lost forever.

Sitting down at his brother's side, Connor couldn't find the words through his guilt and his utter happiness, so Da helped him.

"Murphy," he introduced. "This is your twin brother, Connor."

"Hey Connor," greeted Murphy, hearing the name, but not making the connection in his mind.

"Hey Murph," replied his twin, still overjoyed to have his brother back.

Helping his brother to his feet, Connor said, "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. You might remember better if you can see passed that forest of hair."

Allowing himself to be led, Murphy entered the bathroom with his brother and sat down on the toilet's closed lid.

Carefully, Connor cut off Murphy's unruly beard, revealing his brother's thin, pale face.

Moving on to his hair, Connor sheared his brother's hair, but nearly halfway, Murphy's eyes glazed with pain and he jerked away from the electric razor's blade.

Looking at his brother's head, Connor saw the nasty looking gash on his brother's skull, undoubtedly from the fuckers that had worked him over.

Gently finishing his work, Connor helped Murph clean up and changed him into a loose T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants, putting him to sleep in his own bed for the first time in over three months.

"I think I found out why he can't remember anything," Connor stated, closing the bedroom door and walking into the kitchen. "He's got a gash on his head that looks pretty bad. He might need some stitches on it."

"We'll let him get his strength back first before we start to cut him up again," Da reasoned, but agreeing with his son.

The next day, as Murph walked into the sunlit kitchen from the dark bedroom, his head exploded in pain almost worse than ever before.

Falling to the floor, Murph was soon joined by his father and brother.

"Sit him down and pull the blinds," ordered Da, knowing the sun had caused the pain.

Helping his brother over to the couch, Connor quickly shut the blinds and rushed back to his brother's side.

Grabbing a pair of dark sunglasses from the end table, Da handed them to Connor, who carefully put them on Murphy's ears, allowing them to block out the sun from his sensitive eyes and head.

Once Murph finally settled down, Da took a look at the back of his son's head, immediately finding the gash and seeing that it was in bad need of some surgery.

Talking quietly so he didn't cause his son more hurt then necessary, Da said, "Murph, I've got some bad news for you."

"Oh really?" Murph asked, gritting his teeth against the pain. "What's that?"

"That gash on the back of your head really needs some surgery, but we can't take you to a doctor," Da explained.

"OK," Murph said. "So?"

"I'll do what I can for you," Da explained, "but I'm afraid that I might only make your memory worse."

Looking at his brother's worried face, Murphy knew his answer.

"Do it," he stated quietly.

After nearly two hours, Murphy was asleep in his and Connor's bedroom with his head wrapped in bandages.

The makeshift operation was very rough on him and left him completely drained, a dull, throbbing pain steadily pulsing through his head.

"Is he going to be okay?" Connor asked worriedly.

"I don't know," replied Da, wiping his son's blood off of his hands. "If this doesn't work, I'm not sure what other options we have."

Walking into their shared bedroom, Connor knelt down by his brother's side.

He knew Murphy had to be scared, putting all of his faith in two people that, to him, he didn't know.

Sitting down on his brother's bed, Connor put his arms around his brother and allowed Murphy to rest his bandaged head on Connor's chest.

Slowly, Murphy fell asleep, calmed by the gentle beat of his brother's heart.

Gradually, Connor too dozed off, comforted and relieved that they had finally found the missing piece of the MacManus family.

While Connor stayed with Murphy, the telephone in the kitchen gave a shrill ring.

Quickly grabbing the phone so as not to further pain his son Da gave a guarded, "Hello?"

"Noah, it's Smecker," the detective said on the other end.

"Paul," Da greeted. "What's the matter?"

"Apparently two underbosses were killed in front of a liquor store last week in broad daylight a few blocks from your apartment," the agent stated. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"Did someone say something?" Da questioned, trusting the agent, but wondering if he had left anything behind to incriminate himself or his sons.

"No," Paul assured. "All of the witnesses agreed it was self defense, but one mentioned that a bystander was injured by one of the men's bullets."

"Yes," explained Da. "We brought him back here. Connor and I couldn't leave him and the hospital wasn't an option."

"Do you think he'll talk?" Agent Smecker wondered.

"I don't think so," reasoned Da, suppressing a smirk. "It's Murphy."

"What?" asked the puzzled detective.

"We found him," Da explained. "Those two on the street gave him a bad gash on his head and gave him amnesia, that's why we couldn't find him and he didn't come home."

"Is he all right?" Paul questioned, enlightened by this turn of events, but still needing the appropriate details.

"He's back is healing," stated Da, "but his head wound needed some surgery. I've done the best I could, but now all we can do is give it a chance to heal."

"Does he have any memory at all?" wondered Smecker, finding he had more questions than answers.

"No," Da said, shaking his head, "everything is still very lost to him."

"I'll be over later," Paul stated. "Call me if anything changes."

"All right," the older man nodded, hoping the only change would be good.

A few hours later, when Connor opened his eyes, he looked down at his brother and his heart filled once again with happiness as well as guilt.

Watching his brother sleep, Connor thought back over the last few months and feeling as if a rug had been pulled out from under his feet.

All in just three short months his brother had been jerked away from him and then thrust back again, leaving Connor with a horrific case of whiplash.

Feeling Murphy move, Connor looked down to see his brother's blue eyes slowly blink open and stare up at him.

There was a dreadful time in the last few months that he thought he would never see that face again.

Looking up and seeing his brother's face, Murph gave a small groan as the pain in his head woke up as well.

"Connor, tell Da to turn the phone off," Murphy stated, hearing the faint ringing through the wall. "It's Saturday for fuck sake."

Connor gave a small chuckle, and then the truth hit him.

"What did you say?" he asked, noticing that his brother called him by his first name without hesitation for the first time since they found him.

"I said," Murphy stated with a tiny smirk on his lips. "Turn the stupid phone off, Connor."

Grabbing his brother into a tight hug, Connor could feel the tears of joy stream down his face.

"You remember! I can't believe it!" exclaimed the overjoyed brother.

"Easy Connor," Murph begged, holding his forehead, the pain still very apparent in his screaming head.

"Sorry," Connor whispered, easing his tone, but still not letting go of his brother.

"Is Da home?" asked Murphy, more than ready to get back to his old life, despite his injuries.

"Yea," his brother replied. "He's in the kitchen."

"I want to see him," Murphy stated, sitting up.

"All right," Connor nodded, finally releasing his brother, reaching over to the makeshift night stand, and grabbing the pair of dark sunglasses.

Sliding him on his brother's face, Connor helped Murphy up, keeping a supporting hand on his back, and leading him through the dark room.

Reaching the door, Murphy put a finger to his lips.

Catching the idea, Connor released him and watched as Murph walked, gingerly but firmly, over to the table in the kitchen a few feet away from where Da was standing.

"Hey, Da," he stated, sitting down in one of the empty chairs by his father while Connor remained standing, keeping his eyes trained on Murph and Da.

Looking up from the phone that he had just sat down, Da gave his son small, tired smile.

"Hello, Murphy," he replied obviously missing the fact that his son had called him by his nickname and not 'sir' as he had been.

The corners of Connor's mouth slowly turned up as he saw Murph playing with their father as Murph had with him.

Murphy knew he could have continued this charade for a good few minutes but had a better idea.

Leaning back in his seat, he asked, "So, have you called Ma and told her what happened?"

Da, hearing his son's comment and instantly realizing the familiar inflexion to his words, he glanced back at Murphy and saw his famous smirk on his dark-haired son's lips.

Rising from his chair, Da wrapped his arms around his missing son, relieved to have the old Murph back again.

"Hello, son," he said.

"Hello, Da," replied Murphy, too glad to have his family back around him.

The three were soon interrupted by a knock at the door.

"It must be Smecker," Da stated, looking up at the entryway. "He said he would be over later."

"I'll get it," offered Connor, walking towards the door.

"Not so fast, Connor," said Da thoughtfully.

"Yea," Murph agreed. "See who it is first."

Walking to the door, Connor glanced through the peephole to examine the visitors.

"The whole gang's here," he reported, "Smecker, Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly."

"Ah, how sweet," stated Murph, a little touched that all four of the detectives had bothered to visit him.

"I guess I'd better go," he sighed, rising from his chair.

"Murphy, where are you going?" Da asked.

"If I fooled both my father and my brother," reasoned Murphy. "I'm going to have to trick my friends too."

"Murphy," started Da disapprovingly.

"Oh, come on, Da," Connor convinced. "You weren't too happy about it when it was you getting the wool over your eyes."

Da glanced from one son to the other, seeing the conspiratorial glint in both of their eyes.

Finally he turned to Murphy and said, "Come on, Murphy. Let's see if we can't get you some bloody bandages for that head wound."

Murph's face split into a huge smirk.

"Let's do it," he stated.

"Hey fellows," Connor greeted, opening the door once he was sure everything was in place.

"Hello, Connor," answered Smecker, leading the other detectives into the small apartment.

"We heard that you found Murphy," Duffy stated, cutting right to the chase.

"We just came by to see how he was doing," said Dolly.

"Does he remember anything?" questioned Greenly, "Or is he still all, weird in the head."

The other detectives looked at him and shook their heads while Connor tried really hard not to lose his temper with the thoughtless Greenly despite the fact that his brother had recovered his memory.

"No," Connor lied, seeing past Greenly's slipup. "He's still pretty lost."

"But he's starting to get used to being home again," he added, walking into the makeshift living room and allowing the detectives to follow him in.

Barely a minute after everyone had taken their seats, Da led Murphy into the front room.

If he hadn't been forced to keep his straight face, Connor would have congratulated his twin on his marvelously well constructed costume.

Murphy stood resting heavily on his father, looking so weak that he could barely lift his head, let alone walk around on his own steam.

His face was exceptionally pale, almost to the point of being ghostly and a freshly doctored white bandage with a blossom of red something on the left side of his forehead.

"Hello, Murphy," Smecker greeted, watching Da lead Murphy over to the sole empty place in the living room, a large, paisley high-backed chair.

"Hello," replied Murph, his voice echoing sleeplessness and pain as he laid his head back into the chair's bubble of cushion.

"How are you feeling?" asked Dolly, trying to break the awkward tension of seeing a friend that didn't remember them.

"I'm sorry," Murphy stated, forcing his eyes open and rolling his head to face the newcomers. "Do I know you?"

The four detectives exchanged glances.

Not even the ever-ready Smecker who was well versed in everything from Greek mythology to ballistics could think of what to say.

Luckily for them, Connor stepped in to help.

"Murph," he stated, walking over to his brother's unoccupied side. "You remember the detectives that we told you about."

Turning to the four police officers, he added, "Here they are."

Giving a small nod, Murphy closed his eyes once more.

"You know, Murph," Duffy offered. "We found the bastards who jumped you."

"Yea," nodded Dolly. "They're chilling downtown on a slab at the morgue."

Watching Murph, the two detectives realized that he probably wasn't hearing what they were saying over the pounding in his head.

Greenly, however, didn't see it that way.

"How are you doing!" he half-shouted at the injured young man, his own mind mistaking 'amnesia' for 'deafness'.

"I've got a little bit of a headache," groaned Murph, the real pain in his head screaming angrily for the unneeded noise.

"You fucking idiot," growled Smecker, almost completely shocked by the younger man's thoughtlessness. "You're as dumb as a sack of fucking -."

But before he could finish, Smecker looked up to see Murphy grab his head and fall, face down on the floor.

"Holy fuck!" exclaimed Dolly.

The four detectives jumped from their places and joined Da, Connor, and Murphy on the floor.

"We need to call an ambulance," Duffy stated, obviously worried about his injured, younger friend.

"And tell them what?" asked Smecker furiously.

"Yea, Smecker's right," Greenly said. "How are we going to explain a man with a bullet wound and a massive head injury who just happens to be on the federal most wanted list…"

Greenly was soon interrupted by a groan from the injured man.

"Detective Greenly," Murphy stated, pushing himself up from the floor. "I believe that your fly is undone.

While Greenly quickly examined his crotch, realization spread over the other detectives faces.

"You knew the whole time?" questioned Duffy, not believing the pale man in front of him literally a minute ago was now laughing at the joke with his twin brother.

"I do now," replied Murphy with a huge grin on his face matching that of his brother's.

"And when did this development occur?" Smecker wondered, "Or was that a charade as well?"

"It came back this afternoon," Da explained. "Just like it never happened."

"All right," interrupted Greenly, obviously confused. "What's going on?"

"I'm alive, Green Beans," stated Murphy, filling the clueless detective in.

"It's a good thing too," stated Smecker, "because there's a reward out for those two gentlemen that you three have so graciously turned to us."

Reaching into his pocket, Smecker pulled out a small piece of folded paper.

"Now all you have to do is figure out what to do with all that money," Dolly added, as Connor took the paper and unfolded it to see the sum of the check.

"I think I might have an idea," stated Murph, taking the check from his brother's hand, a strange glint in his eyes.

Connor and Da both had their doubts but in four months, with the money they had earned from the bastards that Da had killed outside the liquor store, Murphy had created a sort of halfway house for people who were down on their luck to help them get back on their feet.

Walking through the second floor cafeteria, Murphy saw Kara serving soup to the other boarders.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she greeted, walking over to him and pulling him into a tight hug.

"How's the head?" asked Kara, knowing that, despite the time that had passed, he wasn't completely back to normal.

"A few headaches now and then," Murphy replied with a shrug, "but I'm all right."

"Thank you so much for this," whispered Kara, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"I'm just glad I could help," he replied.

"Murphy," Da called, from his place at the doorway next to Connor. "We need to be on our way." 

"All right, Da," answered Murph, turning back to Kara.

"I've got to go," he stated.

Kara gave him a small nod.

"Just don't make yourself a stranger, okay?" she asked.

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't."

As Murphy disappeared with his family, Kara was joined by Leroy.

"It's seems like our little lost lamb was exactly the answer we were looking for," she noted triumphantly.

After a long moment, Leroy gave a small nod.

"I guess you were right," he stated, putting his arm around her shoulder. "He's not so bad after all."

"Roy," chided Kara, calling him by his pet name.

"All right," the older man conceded. "Any woman would be lucky to have him."

"Even you," he added with a smile.

"Oh, stop," said Kara, not minding the idea, too putting her arm around him shoulder as the two of them turned back to the tables.

That night, as Murphy laid full length on the living room's shabby couch, taking a drink from his Guinness with Connor in the high-backed chair doing the same, Da snubbed his dying cigar into the end table's ash tray.

Looking into his cigar pouch, Da realized that there was only one cigar left.

"Murphy," he asked, holding up the case. "Would you mind, son?"

Murphy glanced from his father to his brother.

"Not on your life," he said finally, taking another swig of his beer.


End file.
